A Kiss of Adventure (24 page)

“Read it out loud,” he said.

“25 December, 1806—

I believe it is Christmas Day somewhere, though not here. I know I will not live to see tomorrow. The Bight of Benin the blight of Benin. Ailie when I get back will you let me rest? Will you keep the Moors away? The Bight of Benin the blight of Benin. Ahmadi Fatouma has the wealth in safekeeping for me. Ailie we will buy that house on Chester Street. Mine mine mine! I have the wealth. I possess the treasure of Timbuktu. One day, one day the white man will come here. One day, one day the white woman will come here. She will plant trees and make it a garden for tea parties. She will plant trees. She will find the treasure of Timbuktu. And the curse of the Bight of Benin will be ended.

Mungo Park”

She placed the paper on the table. “Every time I read this, I get the same feeling. He’s not making sense. He’s raving.”

Graeme swallowed. “What did you say?”

“His thoughts ramble all over the place. I think he’s gone mad.”

“That’s it!” He grabbed the document. “It’s so simple I missed it completely. He
was
going mad—that’s the blight of Benin. Look, Tillie, he keeps saying ‘The Bight of Benin the blight of Benin.’”

“Right. But—?”

“He knew he was losing his sanity. If he had reached the Bight of Benin—the mouth of the Niger River—by the time he wrote this, he had met his goal. From the time my mother told me about Mungo Park, I wanted to believe he had succeeded in tracing the course of the river all the way to its mouth. I think this page of the journal proves it. But the wording leads me to think he got sick once he arrived there. He was going mad with fever and delirium.”

“Was that the curse he said white people would end? Do you suppose he was thinking of medicines and doctors that would be here one day?”

Graeme pored over the document. “You may be onto something. Let’s read the document in light of the idea that he was mentally unstable. He was lucid enough to write and to want to convey his last thoughts, but he wasn’t together enough to get it down in a rational way. Okay, the first part of the page, the date, tells us Park did live longer than Ahmadi Fatouma claimed.”

“That means the guide was lying about Park’s death.” She went to stand behind him and look over his shoulder.

“There’s something else that proves it. A book that had belonged to Mungo Park was found in Bussa several years after his death. I’ve seen it in the Royal Geographic Society Museum. It has no sign of water damage.”

“And the guide said everything was thrown into the river.”

“Exactly. I’m sure he was lying about Mungo Park’s death.”

“And ‘Will you keep the Moors away?’ could refer to the nightmares he had suffered after his first trip. You told me about that a long time ago.”

“Right. Okay, let’s make a couple of assumptions. Mungo Park did not drown in the river like the guide said. He was at the Bight of Benin on Christmas 1806. But he was delirious with a fever that was ravaging his mind. He believed he was going to die.”

“Then what do you make of this part? ‘Ahmadi Fatouma has the wealth in safekeeping for me. Ailie we will buy that house on Chester Street. Mine mine mine! I have the wealth. I possess the treasure of Timbuktu.’”

“It means his guide was with him to the end, all the way to the Bight of Benin. It also means that whatever treasure Mungo Park had, he put Ahmadi Fatouma in charge of it. He trusted this guy who later lied to the authorities. Now why would a person who had been a trusted leader and guide lie?”

Tillie searched his face. “You tell me, Graeme. Why would a man lie?”

“Because he had something important he wanted to safeguard. Something that meant more to him than anything else.”

Tillie wondered what it was Graeme would lie to protect. A chance at treasure? A smuggling operation? What could mean so much to this man that he would risk his freedom at the hands of the Malian government . . . or his life at the hands of the Tuareg?

“Whatever it was that Ahmadi Fatouma had in safekeeping,” Graeme was saying, “he intended to protect it at all cost.”

“Gold?” she asked.

“Maybe. It was something Mungo believed he could use to buy Ailie a house on Chester Street.”

“I still don’t see how the Tuareg fit into this picture.” She thought about her conversation with Hannah. It could be merely a matter of hours before the
amenoukal
had her again. She needed to understand as much of Mungo Park’s story as she could. “How do you suppose the Tuareg got their hands on the amulet?”

Pacing the room, Graeme rubbed his forehead in thought. He walked to the window and peered outside. Then he turned and wandered back to the table. At last he looked at Tillie.

“The rest of the story is all conjecture. We don’t have any clues from the document as to what happened after it was written. That’s when the journal disappeared.”

“And so did the treasure.” Tillie watched Graeme resume his pacing. “Review what we know so far.”

“Second expedition to find the mouth of the Niger River. Mungo Park was with Ahmadi Fatouma when they left Timbuktu. They had some kind of gifts or treasure in the boat. We know they made it past Bussa, because a book of Mungo’s was found there. It had no water damage—so Ahmadi probably was lying about Mungo drowning in Bussa. They went on down the river and made it to the Bight of Benin.”

“You
think
they made it to the mouth of the Niger.”

“Like I said, it’s all a guess. By the time they arrived at the Bight of Benin, Mungo was delirious with fever—the blight of Benin, as he put it. He had given Ahmadi Fatouma charge of the treasure. He wrote the last page of his journal, and then he must have died. That’s all we’ve got.”

“Let’s say Mungo did die the day he wrote the page in my amulet—or soon after. Ahmadi Fatouma must have taken the treasure and the journal. Where would he have gone?”

“Back to his home, I assume.”

“Which was where?”

“Segou? I don’t know.” Graeme raked his fingers through his hair in frustration. “The point is that he separated this page from the rest of the journal because . . . why? Why did he do that?”

Tillie closed her eyes. She tried to picture the guide returning up the river with the journal and his canoe full of treasure. An image of the
amenoukal
came to mind, as though he were some strange reincarnation of Ahmadi Fatouma. Then her mind wandered to Khatty, and she thought of the way the young woman had fallen to the floor in superstitious awe of the amulet’s power.

Tillie opened her eyes. “Ahmadi Fatouma separated this page from the rest because he had read it. He knew what it said, and he thought it was cursed—and he thought the treasure was cursed, too.”

Graeme stared at her. “But how would he have known what it said? He couldn’t read English—wait a minute. He would have passed through Timbuktu on his way back to Segou. He could have had someone read it to him here.”

“Sure. There were all kinds of scholars living in Timbuktu at that time, remember? I bet the guide wanted to know what the book said, and when he heard the ramblings about the treasure and his own name and the tree-planting woman and the curse, he decided the whole thing was cursed, and he ditched it.”

“If he did, it may have happened in Timbuktu. I think we’re onto something. Ahmadi Fatouma thought the curse would be ended one day when the tree-planting woman came. That’s why he preserved the document in the amulet. So people would know that when she came, the curse would end.”

“And she would find the treasure. That’s what Mungo wrote—literally. A white woman would come and plant trees, end the curse, and find the treasure of Timbuktu. So how did the Tuareg get the amulet?”

“They’re raiders. Maybe they stole it.”

“Where do you suppose Ahmadi Fatouma hid the treasure and the rest of the journal?”

“You seem to be into his frame of mind. If you had been the guide and had just learned that the treasure was cursed, what would you do with it?”

She closed her eyes again. It was easy to slip back into the thought patterns of Khatty and her mystic view of life. What would Khatty have done? Tillie envisioned the girl and her large, liquid, wondering eyes.

“Ahmadi would have put the treasure where he thought Mungo Park meant for it to be until the curse was ended,” she whispered. “And he would have known where that was from the document. From reading Mungo’s words.”

Graeme pounced on the page of the journal and looked at it carefully. “Here, read it as if you were Ahmadi Fatouma. Where would you think Mungo had told you to put it?”

She stared down at the familiar words in a new light. Trying to understand them as a frightened, superstitious man would. She read silently.
“Ahmadi Fatouma has the wealth in safekeeping for me. Ailie we will buy that house on Chester Street.”

“Is there anything around here with the name Chester?” she asked Graeme. “A place, a building? Anything?”

He shook his head. “I’ve never heard of anything.”

She went on reading.
“Mine mine mine! I have the wealth. I possess the treasure of Timbuktu.”

None of that led her to any clues. She looked at the words again and said them aloud: “‘Mine mine mine!’ Wait a second. . . . Graeme, is there a mine around here? Like a gold mine or a salt mine?”

He stopped pacing. “Sure there’s a mine around here. There’s the old Timbuktu mine. You don’t think—”

“Yes! I think Ahmadi believed he was supposed to hide the treasure in the mine.” She tried to make herself breathe. “Graeme, the treasure is in the mine. And so is the journal.”

He grinned. “Well, Tree-Planting Woman. It looks as though Mungo Park was right. You have found the treasure of Timbuktu.”

FOURTEEN

Tillie woke to a key turning in the door. She sat up and jerked the sheet to her chin. Images of the night before raced through her mind. The library. Hannah. The Tuareg. The revelation about the mine. Graeme had left the room just after that. To make some phone calls, he had told her. And she had fallen asleep, so tired she didn’t even care that she was still dressed.

The door swung open, and Graeme sauntered into the room. Showered, shaved, dressed all in khaki, he looked like he had the world by the tail.

“Mornin’, glory.” His voice was cheerful, light.

The three books he took from the mosque must be in safekeeping somewhere,
she realized. Or had he disposed of them already? Made a rendezvous with someone while she slept? She moved to get up; then she saw that Graeme was carrying a tray of food to the bed.

“Sorry to wake you. You were sleeping so soundly.”

“Did you get some rest?”

“Couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the document and our talk last night. I think the journal really may be in the mine. At least it was. If it’s still there, it’ll be a miracle.”

Tillie bit into a soft roll. “Why shouldn’t it be there?”

“For one thing, it’s been two hundred years since someone hid it. Mines aren’t the best storage places. I found out last night that the Timbuktu mine is partially flooded.”

“What kind of mine was it? Salt?”

“Gold.” He stuck up a thumb. “How’s that for a connection? Anyhow, if the journal’s there, I’m going to find it.”

“Even if it’s not, you have the last page in the amulet. That’s enough to indicate that Mungo Park made it to the Bight of Benin.”

“It’s enough for me, but I doubt it would be enough for the experts. I need the whole journal to prove my case.” He downed a demitasse of steaming Arab coffee in one swallow. “That journal has been my goal for a long time. I can’t believe we’re this close.”

She stirred her tea. Should she tell him about the trouble he may not have taken into account? Yes. She could be honest, even if he wasn’t.

“Graeme, I think the Tuareg may have found Hannah and Arthur.” She watched his body language alter from easy to tense. “Last night on the phone Hannah wouldn’t talk to me in English. She kept giving me Swahili proverbs of warning and caution.”

“Did she sound frightened? Do you want to try to get her out of there?”

“She told me not to come.”

“What about Robinson? Did you talk to him?”

“Arthur was standing guard. He didn’t know I called. I think Hannah will be okay. The Tuareg won’t want her except as bait to draw me out of hiding.”

Graeme went to the window and checked the street. “They haven’t found you yet, but they will. Look, Tillie, I intended to leave you in town while I went after the journal. That old mine could be tricky.”

She slid out of bed and brushed at the wrinkles in her trousers. She would play out this game to the end. She couldn’t deny that she cared deeply about Graeme. She loved him. Loved the man she had thought he was. But she had to know everything.

“I’m getting used to ‘tricky,’” she said.

The afternoon was hot, the concrete steps blinding as Tillie and Graeme headed out of the hotel and into the center of Timbuktu. They had sent a bellboy to buy a couple of burnouses and turbans, and they wore them over their khakis in a more or less futile attempt to blend.

In the daytime, the town had lost its mysterious, glimmering light and had become brazen and tawdry. A group of overweight, pink-skinned tourists in plaid golf shorts and beach hats surveyed postcards. Another group haggled over prices of cheap jewelry.

“You buy this sword,” a young man shouted as he ran across the street toward the tourists. “Tuareg sword. Genuine. I sell you very cheap.”

Tillie blanched at the shoddy imitation of the
amenoukal
’s sword. It probably had been made in Taiwan and wouldn’t even cut butter. All the same, it gave her the creeps. Graeme pushed through the crowded narrow streets and edged back toward the Sankore Mosque.

Their truck was parked beside the mosque, where they had left it the night before. The old doorkeeper had been replaced by two brawny young men who stared in open curiosity at the burnous-clad man and woman climbing into the vehicle.

Graeme started the engine and pulled out onto the street. He rolled down his window against the stifling heat. “I don’t doubt the
amenoukal
is near or inside Timbuktu right now,” he said. “He’ll have a bead on us within the hour.”

Tillie glanced down narrow, crooked streets. “He won’t know about the mine. You think he can track us?”

“He’s done it before.” Graeme kept his focus on the road. “We’ll have to move fast.”

Leaving the town to its noisy commerce, the truck roared north along a stretch of barren track. Half-disintegrated into a dusty stretch of desert, the road meandered past strange outcroppings of rock and nearly vanished between sand dunes.

Tillie studied Graeme’s profile. Golden light bronzed his skin. In the breeze, his hair ruffled like a nighttime sea.
Dear Lord.
The prayer welled up in her heart.
Dear Lord, I love this man so much. I’ve seen a goodness in him that nothing can deny. He’s brave, gentle, intelligent, kind. He was ready to give up this trip to the mine to pluck Hannah from the clutches of the
amenoukal.
I’m sure of it.

Tillie knew Graeme cared about the old woman because he cared about her. She had seen too much evidence to doubt it. More than once he had rescued her when it would have been much easier to abandon her. And he had honored her as he promised. Though she responded to his kisses, he never pushed her beyond the limit she had set.

She looked down at the beaded ring. A man of honor.

A thief.

She’d seen it for herself in the library. He took those books. Rare old books stolen from the Sankore Mosque, just as Arthur had told her. She shouldn’t be so surprised, so disappointed. Darkness characterized the unrepentant heart. The father of lies could overcome any amount of human effort at goodness.

Hadn’t Hannah warned her?
“Do not be bound together with unbelievers.”
Tillie leaned her head against the window’s metal frame.
Lord, I’m sorry. Forgive me. Forgive my disobedience.

“Tillie?” Graeme said over the rattle of the truck. “You look a thousand miles away.”

“Remembering some things Hannah taught me a long time ago.”

“I’ve been thinking about the future. Once I get my hands on that journal, things are going to fall into place.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “What would you say to a celebration in Bamako? Just the two of us.”

She fought her rebel heart. “I’ll have to get back to work. My neem trees—”

“Hey, the trees can wait.” He took her hand, laced his fingers through hers. “Tillie, we’ve been through a lot together. I think we know each other about as well as two people can. You’ve brought a light into my life I thought I’d never see. You’ve taught me how to have hope. Happiness. I never want that to slip away.”

“Graeme, please. I can’t . . . I can’t . . .”

“Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts about Arthur.”

“It’s not Arthur!” She let out a hot breath. “It’s you. I have to let you go.”

“Let me go? What’s
that
supposed to mean? I’m not going anywhere without you. We belong together.”

“No, Graeme, we don’t. We can’t.” She turned to the window, fighting tears. “I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have let this go beyond friendship.”

“It’s way beyond friendship. I love you, Tillie.”

“Graeme, please. Please don’t say that.”

“I’ll say it a hundred times. I love you, Tillie. I love you—”

“It can’t work. I’ve tried to make it clear to you. On the surface we’re alike. But inside, where it really matters, we’re worlds apart.” She swallowed at the gritty lump in her throat. “Don’t you see? I’ve committed my life to God’s will, not my own. I can’t follow him if I’m with someone who isn’t. It’s like those camels in the Tuareg caravan. If you tie two of them together and each tries to go down a different path, the whole caravan breaks down. It’s chaos. No one goes anywhere; everyone suffers. We would suffer. We’re on different paths, Graeme. I can’t be with you no matter how much I love you.”

His stunned eyes scanned her face. “You . . . love me? And yet you’re rejecting me because of your faith?”

Her voice was no more than a whisper. “Yes.”

“You’re a strong woman.”

She brushed a tear from her cheek.
O God, I’m
not
strong. I’m weak. I’m weak and foolish. And, Lord, I love him so much!
Scrunched into the corner of the seat, she stared blankly at the passing desert. She felt as barren and empty as that sand. Graeme loved her, and she had turned him away. Given him up.

He let go of her hand and shifted gears. She couldn’t make herself look at him, but she knew him so well she could picture him in her mind. The muscle in his jaw would be jumping, his knuckles would be white on the steering wheel.

“You’re right,” he said finally. “My soul is black.”

She glanced at him, surprised at the vehemence in his voice. “I didn’t say that.”

“You meant it. You’re a daughter of the light, right? I’m a son of darkness.” A bitter smile creased the corner of his mouth. “Abandoned by God. Remember that argument we had on the road out of Bamako? You said nobody’s abandoned by God. You said God’s like a father. You asked me the worst thing a son could do. Kill someone, I said. Remember?”

“Yes.”

“I killed my father.” He turned on her, his eyes red-rimmed. “Killed my own father. Try to work that into your little analogy.”

Sorrow, regret, compassion all flowed through her at the bleak expression in his eyes. “How did it happ—”

“There’s more.” He cut her off. “I don’t regret it. There’s not an iota of repentance in my black heart. I’m glad I killed him. I’d kill him again.”

“Graeme—”

“Forget it. I got your message loud and clear.” He shifted again. “This must be the turnoff.”

“Graeme, why didn’t you tell me about your father before now?”

“What difference would it make? You’re right. You and I are different. Day and night. Heaven and hell. Drop it, okay?” He gave her a mirthless smile. “Let’s finish this thing so you can get back to your trees.”

The rutted track led toward a wadi—a stone formation that held a little water during the rains. The old truck bounced to a halt in front of a jagged crag. There was no sign of a mine entrance.

Tillie shivered. She felt sick. Sick with fear and confusion. Graeme was a murderer and a thief. He’d admitted killing his own father. So why did her heart ache for him? Why was his pain so raw and fresh she could feel it in her own soul?

Father.
She breathed a plea to the Lord of her life.
Father, show him your truth. You can wash him. You can heal him. Father, please. Not for me, Lord, but for him. He’s dying inside. You can see it in his eyes. For all his claims of being unaffected, he’s being eaten up inside by grief or guilt or something, Lord. Something dark. Please, help him.

Graeme climbed out of the truck and tossed his burnous and turban on the seat. He dug a kerosene lamp from the back of the truck. “You want to wait in the truck?”

“You know me better than that.”

“Let’s go then.”

She followed him to the wadi and clambered up its steep slopes to help him search the rock for signs of an entrance. The sun was vertical when he gave a shout and waved her toward a craggy fissure. She crossed the crumbling stone.

He went down on his knees to peer inside. “There’s scaffolding.” He held the lamp inside the opening. “I can see some rough steps. The floor looks dry. I’d say this is it. We’ve found the shaft.”

“Then let’s head down.”

Graeme raised an eyebrow. “Sure you want to go down into the jaws of death with a murderer?”

“‘Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—’”

“‘I will fear no evil,’” he finished.

“You’re not evil, Graeme. And I’m not afraid of you.” She said the words before she realized how true they were. She was afraid of the
amenoukal
and his broadsword. Afraid of the crocodiles in the Niger. Afraid of the doorman at the Sankore Mosque. But she wasn’t afraid of Graeme McLeod.